In ten years, I'll be 38 years old.
I will be an RN and never ever going back to school again if I can help it. I don't know if I'll still want to work in geriatrics or not. Maybe I'll have had my fill of it by then. I'll be working in a facility I like, with a population that I love.
I hope to have had children by then. At least 2. Hopefully they'll be healthy and happy. I'm pretty sure I'll think they're the best kids in the world.
In ten years, my husband will be 41. I hope he'll be healthy and happy too, and that we'll laugh about how we used to marvel that people with Cystic Fibrosis could be fine and middle-aged. I think he'll be fine and middle-aged, and so will lots of other people with CF, by then. And it'll seem silly that 41 ever seemed "old" for someone with that disease.
We'll still have our Small Business, but it'll have grown a bit by then. We'll take days off and vacations, and I'll probably still go and clean the store after closing time a few times a month.
I'll still live in this town, because I LOVE this town and am never, ever leaving, ever again. I moved away once, and that turned out okay because I'm back now. But I won't move away again. This is my home.
It's not that big of a town. In ten years, I'll know 85% of the people that live here. I'll have my fingers in every metaphorical pie around here, and will make up more ridiculous small-town festivals and parades to fill in the gaps of when we're not having one. And since I'll know everyone, my festivals will happen easily. March of the Maracas and Mustaches? On it. Festival of Whole Grains? Sure. Book it for April. These really aren't that far-fetched if you're familiar with some of the real-life shenanigans this town puts on yearly. And I love that about it.
In 10 years, I'll be happy, just like I am now.